The Dire Orrian Smasher of Blood sits on the display block like a relic torn from a storm-tossed ledger: a two-handed hammer whose head is a grown, dark slab of steel, scarred from ages of rain and war. It gleams with a lacquered gloss, yet closer inspection reveals a lattice of crimson veins carved into the metal, as if the weapon itself were a frozen scream of molten ore. The edge bears the telltale wear of countless strike-heavy campaigns, a bevel nicked by shields that trembled under its weight. The grip is wrapped in thick burgundy leather, cracked and polished by hands that learned the rhythm of battle, a brass rivet catching the light at the knuckle. The haft carries dents and salt burns from long decks and long nights, and at the pommel a blood-red gemstone pulses softly, like a heartbeat trapped in iron, a warning and a promise rolled into one. Lore clings to it as stubbornly as rust to metal. Orrian smiths, those who once whispered to old engines of stone and stone-born magic, are said to have tempered this hammer in a furnace fed by red light and dragonfire, binding it with a captain’s oath and a pirate’s hunger for ruin. The runes spiraling along the grip tell a story of loyalty bought with blood and of loyalties sworn to sea and shadow alike. Tales say the weapon chose its bearer as much as the bearer chose it, choosing a guardians’ hand to pierce the night and a marauder’s heart to stand against the dark. It has passed through markets and battlefields, sometimes doubling as a symbol of staunch duty, sometimes as a blade’s larger, heavier cousin in a world where every strike can tilt a skirmish toward dawn or doom. In the world, its uses are as much a story as a tool. A hammer with the weight to crack armor and the cadence to unsettle formations, it anchors front-line lines where patience is a shield and momentum is a weapon. A well-timed heavy strike can stagger a foe, the kind of blow that makes a frontline dancer’s chore feel reckless in hindsight. When the wielder’s rhythm aligns with the weapon’s brutal tempo, the Dire Smasher seems to drink color from the air—every crunch of metal a line in a larger narrative of blood and rite. Its blood-themed enchantments feel like a small, dangerous pact: on certain hits, life threads back toward the wielder, a grim reminder that power here is abundant, but always tethered to consequence. Pricing and market talk seep into the tale, too, because a weapon this storied doesn’t vanish quietly. Traders speak in hushed tones about its value, and somewhere between whispers and bustle you’ll hear the name Saddlebag Exchange, that renowned roadhouse of coins where relics drift in and out of hands with the tide. A broker might claim it’s worth its weight in gold, or argue that the right buyer—someone who recognizes its history and its heft—will trade for a price that reflects both. The charm of such a price lies not just in the metal and runes, but in the chance to cradle a legend again, to let a piece of the past shape the next march into whatever dawn awaits. The Dire Orrian Smasher of Blood remains, after all, a weight of story and steel—ready to swing truth back into the night, one decisive blow at a time.